Shit Cake.

Black. Not so much the colour, but what you see when you close your eyes. But then you stare closely through the darkness, and you can see the little colours and speckles that dance around. It's as if these little lights are just waiting for you to reach out. To catch one in your hand so that it can explode and make everything bright again. That's all I can think of when people are asking me how my life is at the moment.

Why so glum you ask? To that, I have no answer. The best way of explaining it, is of course through one of my many analogies. "It's like I'm a poor kid. And for dessert I only have this chocolate cake. Then one day, I am given a really expensive cake. Cake that is soft and rich with icing and freddo heads throughout it. And as soon as I've had a fair share of this new dessert, it's suddenly taken away, so that your stuck with the old cake; the one that seemed perfectly fine before, but you now see how crumby and dry it was."
For those of you who totally don't get it: the cake is my life, and I had an awesome moment in it, but then that high was over and I'm back to normal again.

I know. I shouldn't live by this cake analogy forever. Why live in the past wanting what I used to have? But I can't help it. And I hate the state that I'm in. Where nothing seems all that funny and I can't even offer a smile to my best friend - trying to cheer me up in all my lessons.

Today in health we learnt about stress; how too much of it can lead to depression. That's probably it you know. Stress. Stressing about school, expectations, pressure, friends, family, relationships (why does everyone need to be paired up?), money, work, the future, life.

"Why live in the past wanting what I used to have?"

So I dunno. Maybe lay off for a bit? And when I say nothing's wrong, I mean it. There really is nothing wrong. I'm not in great physical pain, my family isn't falling apart, I probably have it better than many of my friends. Maybe I just like to complain. I don't even know why I'm posting this blog. Is it because I'm bored? In a writing mood? Do I need to get everything out of my head and see it written on screen? Or is it a just plea for help I don't want but probably need? I can't tell you the answer. Because I seriously have no idea what's going on.

So don't come up to me and go "are you okay?" Because the chances are I've already been asked that question eight times that day, and have said the same answer each time. Then you will of course say "come on, something's up." And I will look at you, and say the same thing I had just told you. Because even though I just want to curl up and cry, I won't. It's not normal to be human. In this day and age, it's unacceptable to express your emotions. You just have to pull on a mask and face the day with a brave face and perhaps a smile. Even though sometimes it's too much to even muster up the courage.

Whoa is me.

A Feeling Of Sentimentality.

When someone you love dies, it feels like the world is crashing down.
 

Nothing someone says to you can cheer you up; and everything people do brings you down.
 

You realise that there's nothing you can do to bring that person back, and you find yourself snapping at people who tell you that "they understand how you feel" when in reality, no one does but yourself.
 

For ages you go through the seven stages of grief: shock; denial; bargaining; guilt; anger; depression; then finally, acceptance and hope.

"No matter how much you want the world to stop, it keeps turning."

A few people go to therapy. A few dedicate the next couple of months to that person, from visiting the grave weekly to making collages full of that dead friend's face - to remember the good times - you'll tell yourself. But the real reason is so that you can't stand the thought of forgetting how that person used to look.

The remaining people just trudge on through life, knowing that that space inside them will be empty forever, but eventually put to the side.

Then comes the sad truth that we all eventually realise. No matter how much you want the world to stop, it keeps turning. There's still letters in the mail; a pet that needs to be fed; a dishwasher that still doesn't work; homework that needs to be completed. It's just the sad sad truth when you feel like your life is like an island in an ocean of diarrhea.

Encore.

The hardest part is waiting. Everyone has those jitters and no one can quite keep still; yet everybody is still motionless enough to keep an ear out for the first of many people arriving on the other side of the curtain. No-one’s allowed to take a peek at the audience, although I’ve seen a few doing it while the producer isn’t looking.
There are so many people much more nervous than me though. The proof is on everyone’s faces – and in the side stage “chunder bucket”.

There are kids sitting on the risers with scripts in their hands – merely repeating that tricky little sentence of dialogue that gets them every time. At centre stage are the choreographers with the younger kids – showing them just how to turn and silently yelling at little Justin who waited until opening night to tell them he doesn’t know the chorus movement.

I walk out the side door and head towards the dressing rooms, holding my breath as I walk past two very attractive seniors having their last cigarettes for the night. I soon immediately become thankful to the make-up ladies for applying blush, as the blonde one winks at me. I duck my head and keep on moving. “Curtains open in 10 minutes” I hear someone in the background yell.

"The proof is on everyone’s faces – and in the side stage chunder bucket."

The hallway to the change rooms are in a fury – there is a young girl crying in a phone, screaming to her mother that she had had her costume when they had gotten into the car. A boy about twice my size is holding singing warm ups for those soloists who need the last minute tune-up before the big night, yet most of the notes I hear are not ones I would pay to listen to.
There are people rushing past me with shoes half on grabbing their stage props as they go – these guys obviously have mic-checks before the show. I shake my head and give a smile at my friend Denise who, as always, has made another huge hole in her tan stockings, and is busily trying to stop the rip with clear nail polish.

I finally make it to the female dressing room, where the chaos was surprisingly at its minimum. I smell the toasty warmness of the hot chocolate on the bench, and the entire universe can hear the welfare lady urging us to put jackets over our costumes before we all “catch pneumonia”.
I can see good luck cards and bouquets of roses all over the place, mainly from eager parents wishing their child good luck.
It all reminds me of my kindergarten jazz recital – the first time any of us had been on stage. I can still remember the sea of families grinning up at us, proud that their child doesn’t have to watch the instructor doing the movement below the stage.

Then there’s that voice again that brings me back into the present: “Curtain opens in two minutes people! If you’re not down there now then you’re not on stage!”
My long Victorian skirt swishes along the floor as I collect the final prop from my bag – a lacy cardboard fan – and race back up to the stage. I can hear the orchestra start their overture that makes the crowd more anxious to get the show started. I take the hand held microphone from the tech team and walk to the middle of the stage. The stage lights dim immediately as the audience applauses the band, and the dancers take their places behind me. I take a breath and get ready to sing my heart out and steal the show.

The curtain opens, and the heat of the spotlight on my face is amazing, and the watchful gazes from the audience is so intensifying, that the moment is truly perfected when I open my fan and see the words written in the scrawl of that blonde senior boy;
"Break A Leg"


[This was a descriptive piece I wrote for English]